


Pas de Deux

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Gen, M/M, Slight Asphyxiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 16:02:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2354351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>1: a dance or figure for two performers</em>
  <br/>
  <em>2:  an intricate relationship or activity involving two parties or things.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pas de Deux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> ~~Rachel, leave feedback you silent monkey~~ So, it's been awhile since I've even dabbled in the Sherlock fandom and I apologize if Sherlock comes off OCC but I've been writing Winchester man pain for awhile and I'm using that as my excuse. Be gentle with me :3 Also inspired by this http://nybakay.tumblr.com/post/54456260656/the-detective-dances-if-sherlock-was-a-ballet
> 
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> _Entrechat: a jump straight up, during which the dancer rapidly crosses his legs before and behind each other._
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> _Jeté : a jump in any direction from both feet to one foot._
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> _Sur les Pointes: means on the toes_
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> _Tour en l’Air : a complete turn in the air after a dancer springs straight up._

It was late. Late enough to be called early and there was that chill in the air that only seemed to be around right before the sun rose. It had been maybe a month since he was not exiled and unfortunately, life was getting dull.

He had actually just finished a case and was directing his thoughts toward the bigger problem. The problem that made his plane turn around and land. The dance studio Sherlock was heading for would be closed at this time, much like every thing else, but Sherlock had long since swiped the key and made a copy. The owner knew and had no problem, leaving Sherlock a place that wasn’t his flat or his elder brother’s house. As stragglers of the quickly dying night passed by him, his mind gave him their basics. When he was younger, he had tried shutting that off, attempting to fit in but when it was clear that no matter what he did the other children would remain cruel or impassive, he embraced the gift. He was even able to challenge his brother’s skills now, he reminded himself with a quick tug of a smirk on his lips. 

A man a little bit shorter than him bumped into him and Sherlock instincts told him before his brain even began to comprehend. Violent. He shoved his chin down into his scarf and kept walking. Maybe if he wasn’t alone he would do his job but he was tired and all he wanted at the moment was to feel the pleasant ache of stretched muscles. Usually, on a more rambunctious or active night, he would participate in some high-speed pursuit of an assailant but tonight had him down in the morgue with the coroner. He slipped into the alley that led to the back door of the studio, letting a content sigh slip from his lungs as he put the copied key into the slot and turned. Per norm, the lights were off and the mirrors covered. 

The owner always had the odd habit of covering up every single mirror of the ballet room, something about recent cinematic joy that turned into a reoccurring nightmare. Moriarty wasn’t a blank like Irene. He could tell some things about the man but not enough and Sherlock found himself being more and more frustrated by his lack of knowledge regarding the criminal after everything. He shook his head at himself. Holding on to his bag, he slipped into the changing room, stripping then changing into black skin hugging tights and the designated slippers. He exited the room, letting his clothes fall on top of his bag that rested just outside of the doorway to the ballet room before flipping on the lights, entering the room then ripping the sheets off only two of the mirrors. 

“Well, that was unnecessarily dramatic.” a soft voice laced with a rather sophisticated brogue pointed out as the dust settled, Sherlock didn’t bother to answer. He had noticed James Moriarty the moment he walked into the room. The voice continued, not offended by the lack of reply, as it came from base of stairs in the right corner of the room. The room was a bit chilled from the cold weather outside and it crept across Sherlock’s bare torso but it died away almost instantly when he caught sight of shining obsidian eyes at the base of the stairs, the man sitting on the bottom step. James Moriarty was somewhat of a puzzle. At times, it seemed his whole focus was on Sherlock and Sherlock alone but then something would happen to contradict that notion entirely. Sherlock spent the better part of the last three years taking down this “villain’s” empire and a sudden shot of adrenaline tells him he should be afraid or at least react. He doesn’t, continues facing the mirror with a bored expression. “I do have to say a quarter to four in the morning is a bit odd time to dance, Sherlock.” says the man who clearly had been partaking in that activity himself.

He blinks. He hasn’t heard his name from those lips in a long time; it gives off certain reactions, chemical and emotional, as a frost begins dancing across his spine. He spared a glance to the bottom of the stairs but the man was walking up them, seeming for the world that nothing had happened, that he had greeted an acquaintance and was now going to depart. 

“Stay.” he offers, mainly because he’ll need a partner for the piece he wants to practice but subtly, somewhere he thought inactive, he likes that feeling and he doesn‘t want it to leave just yet. 

The criminal stops mid way up the metal stairs, looking down with a quirked eyebrow. Sherlock’s gaze zeros in on the slight gleam of sweat dripping down the side of the man’s face, his loose slacks professing comfort and the white wife beater ridden up just a notch on the side. He looks invigorated and Sherlock knows that kind of feeling, it comes from dancing. The man had been dancing. In the dark and with the mirrors covered. Moriarty leans forward on the only railing, black eyes still sparkling, “Why?”

Sherlock turned so he was facing him completely, willing his mind to give him every datum about this man but again, it comes up with fuzzy and blurred answers. He frowns. “I‘ll need a partner.” he says, the answer was obvious and Moriarty knew that.

A pink tongue darts out and licks dry lips before disappearing back into the cavernous mouth then those lips stretch into grin, teeth pressing into the bottom lip and eyes cast upward in mock thought. Sherlock waited for an answer, for an exhale, for _something_. However, no answer was offered and teeth glittered in the darkness as their gazes locked. 

In the back of his mind, he was counting the seconds and he wanted to pull his stare away. He came here for some quick center work, then adagio and maybe allegro, not for some game that the man above him wanted to play. But it wasn‘t him who dropped the gaze, Moriarty looked at a watch on his wrist then a quick glance up the stairs before looking back to the uncovered mirrors. Sherlock watched his right eye twitch then the man was walking up the stairs again. “Put the sheets back when you’re done, Mister Holmes.” he called in that singsong voice.

He stood there, curiosity eating at every nerve ending and most of his mind telling him to follow up the stairs but he didn’t. He flipped the light switch to a more dim setting and hit the play button for the stereo. The intro of _La Sylphide_ began to drift from the built-speakers and Sherlock began his stretches, trying to lose himself in the music and quell the sudden rush of unwanted thoughts. However, a disapproving sound of “Tsk.” came from the stairs and Moriarty was descending them rather quickly with an annoyed frown on his face, he came to stand in front of the stereo and switched it to the piece Sherlock had been planning on. 

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow but Jim was facing him in the 1st Position and Sherlock watched him, categorizing every slip and jolt of muscle as James transitioned to the 2nd then the 3rd before realizing the way Jim was moving would not give him much of an opportunity to stretch himself and the ache he would feel after would not be the pleasantness Sherlock had been searching for. Yet, he started his own part of the dance swiftly catching up with the pace that James had set, there was no force on earth that would make Sherlock not join with Jim when he was supposed to. Which would be soon by the dips and arabesques he had begun, he sucked in a breath as he caught glimpses of Jim’s body twisted for an attitude devant to answer his movements. His technique was quickly logged into Sherlock’s mind as vital information, the way Jim’s feet moved so that Sherlock could barely see them and the perfect balance throughout the rare spins were making Sherlock vibrate with excitement as the act that required the both of them drew nearer and nearer told by the bass of the recorded orchestra. Sherlock had very few capable partners, his own technique erratic and overfilled with emotion that he didn’t express verbally would push others away. But just like in his line of work, Jim was the exception. A marvelous, dangerous, exception. 

Then came the beginning of the act and Jim drew nearer to Sherlock, while both were men Sherlock would be filling the role of Ballerina and James the Danseur. He made a pirouette, with one arm outstretched above his head and the other a bit downwards, so he was facing James and the man’s position was perfect, his right leg bended slightly and his other drawn out behind him, ready for Sherlock. One arm looped under Sherlock’s downward arm and brought him up slowing turning and setting him back down to move gracefully behind Sherlock as the choreography demanded, both hands on Sherlock’s hips in a gentle grasp as he helped propel Sherlock into an entrechat before catching him as he came down. Still moving with poise and rhythm that Sherlock had been craving since he heard this piece of music. The dance required trust and Sherlock shoved away the distractions of dwelling on that thought to long. While Jim didn’t look it, he must have had some strength in his lithe muscles by the way he had easily been picking Sherlock up or attending to the help the ballet called for. It made Sherlock almost dizzy with the knowledge but he kept up with the music, making a Tour en l’Air while Jim was primed Sur les Pointes, both had the sheen sweaty skin that came so quickly into the ballet and Sherlock felt another surge of exhilaration.

They were both a little half-mad, they had to be. Sworn enemies didn’t participate in such a dance. As Jim faced the mirror, Sherlock faced him and took a hold of Jim’s shoulder as his other hand came to grasp Jim’s outstretched hand, he was Sur les Pointes now and Jim was staring at him with an amused and hungry regard. “Does your John dance as well?” he asks, his voice low and menacing, telling he would dislike an affirmative answer. Sherlock didn’t much care what he disliked and again, chose silence as his answer. Although that seemed to give Jim the answer he wanted and the mastermind of a criminal hummed with approval as he dropped Sherlock’s hand and moved closer, so their breaths were mingling. He ran his hands down Sherlock’s sides, gripping harder this time when he found Sherlock’s hips but, as the composition called, Sherlock tore away from Jim performing a perfectly arched jeté. Jim followed, coming up behind Sherlock, they were both facing the mirror now as he resumed the position of Sur les Pointes and Jim let his hand rest delicately at Sherlock’s waist while Sherlock let his let arm go back and grasp Jim’s side. Bringing up his right arm up, he bended it at his elbow so his hand was brushing his pectoral muscle, closing his eyes and turning his head to the right. He felt Jim’s free hand hover over his left arm before it came up to snake around his neck in a loose grip that cut off half of his air supply. Jim’s breath hit the back of his neck and he struggled to retrieve his own but Jim’s hand only tightened. They froze like that, bypassing the dance as Sherlock opened his eyes, though darkness was still encroaching his vision, it wouldn’t be long before he passed out. But he made no attempt of fighting Jim, only pulling Jim forward until he was flush against Sherlock’s back. He was still on his toes and it was adding to the other list of painful aches now. Jim let go and oxygen rushed back into his lungs, the dizzying high that it gave him was put next to Jim’s movements in his mind palace. Slowly he lowered himself until he was on his feet and turned his head to meet Jim’s gaze. Sable eyes shined with arousal and hazard, Sherlock’s returned breath picked up as Jim leaned closer to him, Sherlock titling his head to slot against the expected battle of mouths. 

His lips were soft, barely brushing against Sherlock’s at first, then forceful as they sucked air from Sherlock’s mouth, the black at the corner of his vision returned almost instantly and he let out a pleased noise that Jim swallowed. Teeth bit into his bottom lip, drawing blood that a warm tongue swiped away and pushed into Sherlock’s own mouth. When his grip loosened on Jim’s side from fatigue the criminal pulled away and immediately Sherlock took another gulp of air. 

“See ya later, Sherlock.” was the whispered promise in his ear before Jim’s warmth was gone and the studio empty, his muscles on fire with all the strain he had put on them and 3/4ths of his mind scolding him about his actions. 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are mine and I do not own the characters.


End file.
